


I Can't Believe What I Found

by Mazarin221b



Series: Want You Here Tonight [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-26
Updated: 2011-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:30:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John is blissed out, high on adrenaline and skin and Sherlock." A higher-rated coda to "Want You Here Tonight" I posted yesterday. I didn't think this worked too well as part of the original story, but for anyone that wondered what happened later, here you go. If you don't, well, that's why this is a separate little part.  A deleted rough-cut scene, if you will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can't Believe What I Found

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Nie mogę uwierzyć w to, co znalazłem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4445234) by [Tyone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyone/pseuds/Tyone)



Almost an hour later and they’re still clothed on Sherlock’s bed facing each other, and John is tracing his fingers down Sherlock’s bare shoulder for the hundredth time. It amazes him, how quiet and focused Sherlock is in this moment, allowing himself to be touched, exploring John in return.  John is blissed out, high on adrenaline and skin and Sherlock, and as far as he’s concerned, they could go on just like this for an eternity. He’s always been a patient man, and more than six months of waiting for this has worn grooves into his soul where self-denial sits.  

Sherlock, it seems, has other ideas when John feels him take up his hand where it rests on a slim waist. He kisses John’s fingers, a delicate tongue sneaking out to taste them. John’s breath catches at the escalation, and when Sherlock takes his entire first finger into his mouth and laves it, sucking and nipping lightly, John’s eyes roll back into his head.

“We don’t have to jump in all at once,” he murmurs. “We could draw it out a bit, see where it goes.  Anticipation, you know.”

Sherlock pouts. “Is there something wrong with now?”

“No,” John says, moving suddenly to push Sherlock over onto his back, kneeling over him and holding him down by his wrists. He smiles at Sherlock’s surprised squeak, and wonders if anyone has ever taken this kind of liberty before. On the whole, he thinks not. He watches Sherlock’s face carefully, taking in those silver grey eyes hooded with lust and a full lip caught in white teeth. “Alright?”

“Oh yes,” comes the reply, quiet and slightly breathless.

 He brushes his nose along Sherlock’s cheek, simply breathing, and he feels Sherlock strain toward him, trying to find somewhere, anywhere, to touch. John chuckles and lowers his body just slightly, barely coming into contact with Sherlock’s.  It’s difficult to focus, feeling that hardness along his own, and despite his mind’s desire to take his leisure, his body wants to be naked and entwined.

Stripping his shirt requires releasing Sherlock’s wrists, and when he does, Sherlock turns it to his advantage, sitting up underneath him, almost knocking him over backward.  Long fingered hands slide up John’s torso and help him with the shirt, and when it’s off and flung across the room, he has his hands full of Sherlock’s hair because he is kissing John’s chest, licking his nipples and shoving his hands down the back of John’s pajama bottoms all at once and it’s so overwhelming all John can do is close his eyes and try not to spend in his pants like a kid. It’s a delicious feeling, that Sherlock would want this from him, and he revels in it, lightly scratching Sherlock’s scalp and slowly moving his hips, seeking friction.  

The heat in the flat is starting to rise, causing sweat to break out on his skin and giving a delicious sheen to Sherlock’s chest. It’s sticky, and hot, and John leans forward to put his mouth to the junction between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder and licks the salt from his skin, drawing a full-throated moan from Sherlock’s throat.   He’s much more vocal than John expected, so John does it again, feeling that deep moan through his lips, the bolt of arousal hitting him straight in the groin.




It’s a bit more than he can endure, so he pushes Sherlock gently against the pillows, sliding a hand down his chest and hooking his fingers into the pajamas covering Sherlock’s rather prominent arousal. He pulls gently, sliding his hands over skin as he goes. Fabric slips off of long feet and he turns his head, drinking in Sherlock’s body in one long, appraising look. His cock is hard, and dark flushed with blood, a stark contrast to his white skin. Sherlock’s face is slowly becoming flush as well under John’s gaze, waiting, legs falling open in invitation.

The dozens of fantasies John’s thought up over the last months simply turn to dust at the sight of Sherlock aroused and waiting, reaching a hand up to stroke himself lazily, that knowing smirk lifting the corner of his mouth.  The window by the bed is wide open, a slight breeze ruffling the partially-closed curtains and Sherlock’s dark hair, the room lit by warm sunlight.

He feels a bit like an explorer in the Age of Discovery, charting unknown lands, when he takes up one long leg, resting Sherlock’s slim foot against his chest. The smirk disappears when John starts to stroke his ankle, then his calf, massaging the long muscles up his leg as far as he can reach. Sherlock’s head is thrown back, his eyes closed in pleasure, still lightly stroking himself until John bats his hand away.

“Let me,” John says softly.  He’s determined in this, that he’ll give and not take, accept and not expect. He gets the feeling Sherlock’s past experiences have been more rough and tumble and less caring. _Good God, John Watson, you’re becoming an incurable romantic. Just because you give him a fantastic shag doesn’t mean you get to keep him. This is Sherlock we’re talking about, after all._  Those calculating eyes are suddenly open watching him carefully, knowingly, but Sherlock doesn’t say a word. He simply curls his toes against John’s chest, encouraging him to continue.

He does, placing Sherlock’s foot back on the bed and shifting between his knees. He knows this is something he’s good at, pleasure, and when he dips to take the head of Sherlock’s cock between his lips, almost simply kissing it, she sharp intake of breath up the bed is gratifying.  He swirls his tongue around the tip, stroking at the same time, setting a languid pace that has Sherlock panting and writhing. Pulling his mouth off, he continues to caress, running his fingers down the shaft, smoothing the palm of his hand over trembling thighs. He knows he wants more, hopes Sherlock will allow him more.

“Please tell me you have lube hidden in here somewhere.”

“Bottom drawer,” Sherlock says. “But John, I’ve not done this in – “

John pushes up his body to kiss him. “Stop. I want you. Inside me.”

The immediate effect of this statement is apparent when those grey eyes go wide and a growl rips from Sherlock’s chest.  Long arms wrap around John’s back and he grins, he can’t help it. It’s ridiculous, really, the joy this is giving him, and they’ve barely begun.

He finds the lube, slicks it over Sherlock, heated flesh already sensitive from the blowjob earlier, and probably not going to last long. John swings a knee over Sherlock’s hips and pauses, figuring out just how difficult this could be with so little preparation, until he feels Sherlock slide his hands over and around his hips, tracing the crease of his arse with slick fingers, rubbing and pressing gently. He relaxes into the touch, feeling his body open under insistent fingers. When the fingers are replaced with something larger, smoother, John pushes back slowly, taking Sherlock into his body and slides down until he is held flush against Sherlock’s lap. He breathes deeply, eyes locked with Sherlock’s, and starts to move. Sherlock’s hands grasps his thighs, body reaching up to meet John’s in counterpoint, a rhythm that falters only when Sherlock grasps John’s cock, groans and gasps and John’s name falling from his lips. John knows it won’t be long now and rocks down harder, arse slapping against Sherlock’s hips (oh, he’s going to pay for that later, he will and be glad of it) until the intensity gets to be too much, for both of them, and they shudder, gasping, to completion.

John slumps down on Sherlock’s body, sweaty skin covered in lube and come, almost cemented together. John ignores the mess for the moment, looking forward to the shower afterward.

“I can’t imagine more than this,” John says quietly. “I’d probably pass out.”

Sherlock smiles against John’s hair, lazily rubbing his back. “Are you saying you’re against further encounters?”

“Oh God, no. Maybe a little role-reversal, if you’d be up for it.”  John’s mind fills with visions of Sherlock’s legs over his shoulders, and he shudders.

“Next time,” Sherlock agrees.

John lifts his head and grins at him then, heart clenching at the words. Sherlock smiles in return and reaches for a kiss, and they get lost in it, the warm breeze from the window blowing over their bodies.

 

 

 


End file.
